


Staring

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [3]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:23:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any business gathering that didn't happen over lunch was bound to be excruciating, and this one was no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring

Any business gathering that didn't happen over lunch was bound to be excruciating, and this one was no different. Not that the ones that happened over lunch _weren't_ excruciating, but at least there, Numbers usually had some plate of beef with vegetables to fill his mouth for an excuse when he was tired of pretending he cared.

There was nothing on the table between them now, though, save for a briefcase and a file folder full of photographs. Mr. Tripoli was talking as he sat at one end of it, and Numbers and Wrench were standing at the other end, and around it stood and sat various other syndicate men.

"No bodies," concluded Mr. Tripoli, which might have meant he didn't want anyone killed, or might have meant he didn't want anyone killed where someone could _find_ them; Numbers interpreted it to mean that he should use his best judgment. He was oddly fond of the man, in no small part because he knew Mr. Tripoli knew the quality of work he did and respected him for that. A majority of the syndicate men were men who could do the job, but a few, like Numbers, were men who could get the job done. For all his grotesque, domineering habits, Mr. Tripoli knew the value of the difference.

Numbers reached down and flipped open the file folder. The girl in the grainy shot didn't look a day over fifteen. Numbers would most certainly use his best judgment. "We have a time frame?"

Mr. Carlyle glanced down at the sheet in front of him. "Tuesday, Omaha. Wednesday, Saint Cloud. Thursday, Madison."

St. Cloud it was, then, if they didn't want to spend a thousand hours getting there and back. Numbers glanced over at Wrench, who was standing next to him and looking straight ahead. A furrow darkened Wrench's brow, adding age to his otherwise youthful face. "Just a minute," said Numbers, and before anyone else could respond, he turned to Numbers: You, me, go to S-T-C-L-O-U-D, Wednesday, boss says.

There'd been the various shufflings and mutterings before, but by the time Numbers was showing off (to Wrench, if to no one else) how well he remembered at least one of the days of the week, the room was still. It wasn't even that kind of patient hush you got in a synagogue, waiting for something or another to happen -- this was more like one of those old Batman villains had sprayed a freeze ray over the room, leaving everyone soundless, motionless replicas of themselves. A few were trying not to stare; most didn't bother.

Wrench made a thoughtful face but nodded. Even though he was probably more aware even of the attention now targeted on them, he didn't take his eyes off Numbers. Wednesday is okay, he signed, but-- Then his hands moved in a series of signs that Numbers was still having problems parsing into full sentences, absent the nice little padding words English stuck around everything: before, go, me, need, me, car, take, shop. Oh, he had to take his car in before they could go. That made sense; that thing looked like it was held together by prayers and duct tape.

Numbers nodded and tried not to let on how much all those eyes on him made him sweat; Wrench didn't need to know that and they didn't deserve to. You want me, he signed with closed-lipped care, tell boss about the car? He remembered to raise his eyebrows inquisitively at the end to make clear he was asking a question.

Crinkling his nose, Wrench shook his head. Numbers was willing to lay money on how that was probably of an expression than anyone else in this room had ever seen him make. He signed: I take the car tomorrow, no problems, S-E-R-V-I-C-I-N-G. O-I-L-C-H-A-N-G-E. Wednesday is okay.

_Let me keep working with the kid_ , Numbers had asked of Mr. Tripoli after their first time out together, and it was to Tripoli's credit that he obviously didn't understand but had said yes anyway. Tripoli got told every number, statistic, threat, and payout, but the day-to-day interpersonal runnings of the men below him weren't brought to his level of concern. That'd been how a couple of them had decided to play a big ol' joke on Numbers the month before, taking him to introduce him to his partner for his next job, the new guy, who'd seemed at first blush like the surliest asshole they'd ever let into the organization. He hadn't made a word of conversation, hadn't contributed anything to the briefing, and had even ignored questions Numbers had asked him when the fucker had been sitting _right there_ , Christ, where the _fuck_ did they find these guys?

But Numbers hadn't put together the way the other guys in the room had been sniggering under the breaths until he'd _finally_ gotten the asshole's attention and asked -- magnanimously, Numbers had thought, considering the cold shoulder he'd been getting here -- if he'd needed Numbers to procure him anything for the job before they left. Wrench had shaken his head, then stopped and dug little notepad out of his pocket, a stenographer's sort of thing, and written down, _Can you get me extra clips for an AK?_ The expression of dawning realization on Numbers' face had set off explosions of muffled laughter around them.

They weren't laughing now. From a sheerly mercenary standpoint, Numbers had committed perhaps the greatest defusing of a prank in history. He knew he could have gotten great mileage out of rubbing their noses in it, but he felt even greater satisfaction in not acknowledging them at all. He had a partner to talk to: Everyone is-- He paused, about to lift his fingers for a slightly more intense version of the sign for 'look', but realized mid-gesture that the 'everyone' in question might be able to pick up that meaning from how he'd used gestures like it long before he'd met Wrench. Well, there were ways around that. S-T-A-R-I-N-G at you and me, he concluded instead, remembering the to make it a question with his eyebrows only after he'd put his hand back down.

A little smile tugged at the very edges of Wrench's mouth, and he gave the kind of nod that by itself said _you know they are_.

Good, signed Numbers, taking his right hand forward from his chin to smack his upraised left hand with a sort of flourish; he couldn't keep the grin from his face when the sharp break in the silence was accompanied by the startled squeaking of a few chairs whose owners had suddenly shifted position. He turned back to Tripoli, the essence of smug calm: "Wednesday will be fine, sir."

Like his late uncle, Tripoli was a large man who moved little and said less, but Numbers had never fallen prey to the misconception he'd seen in others that this was a sign of stupidity, that the boss was only dangerous in the way a child with a machine gun might be. He was canny and he was cold, and he liked Numbers as much as he liked anyone, and if the only favor Numbers had ever asked for out of that arrangement was to be paired with the new guy on a long-term basis, for whatever reason, that wasn't so much at all. "Your full report, Friday, lunch," Tripoli said, pointing in the general downstairs direction.

_They didn't tell you I was deaf?_ was what Wrench had written on the pad during their first diner meeting to discuss logistics, and when Numbers had shaken his head, Wrench had circled 'they didn't tell you' with bald incredulity. Of course they hadn't. Why haze one guy when you could make a joke a _two_ men's expense? It had been clear from their goony expressions that they'd expected Numbers to laugh, or to be humiliated, or to pitch a fit about being paired with some sort of obviously defective partner. Who knew what they'd expected Wrench to do. It was all a big fucking laugh, leaving people out of the conversation. Just the funniest fucking thing.

"Friday, you'll have it." With a smile, Numbers picked up the file folder and nodded to the briefcase, which Numbers snatched up in one powerful arm. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Good day." Without sparing so much as a glance to anyone else, he turned and walked out, and knew Wrench was as close behind him as was his own shadow.


End file.
